Poems ✍️

THIS handful of grass, brown, says little. This quarter mile field of it, waving
seeds ripening in the sun, is a lake of luminous firefly lavender.
Prairie roses, two of them, climb down the sides of a road ditch. In the clear pool
they find their faces along stiff knives of grass, and cat-tails who speak and keep
thoughts in beaver brown.
These gardens empty; these fields only flower ghosts; these yards with faces
gone; leaves speaking as feet and skirts in slow dances to slow winds; I turn my
head and say good-by to no one who hears; I pronounce a useless good-by.